Chapter 19 – 19: The Atrium

Mailah woke to golden light spilling through the gauzy curtains. Her head felt clearer, the fog of the fever finally lifting, but her body was still heavy with exhaustion. Her limbs ached the way they did after a long night of dreaming—or a long night of being hovered over by a billionaire with commitment issues.

She blinked and turned her head.

Grayson’s side of the bed was empty.

Not that it was his side. Technically. But last night…

She sat up slowly, heart still fluttering from the memory. Him carrying her. Tending to her. That towel. That voice. Those blue eyes.

And that absolutely scandalous almost-kiss.

She groaned and pressed her palms over her face. “He’s going to drive me insane.”

A soft knock sounded at the door.

She dropped her hands. “Come in.”

It wasn’t Evelyn, or Mrs. Baker, or even a tray of breakfast like she half-expected.

It was Grayson.

He was holding a silver tray with tea, toast, and cut fruit. Still in his dress shirt from yesterday—sleeves rolled, collar slightly wrinkled—but somehow, impossibly, he looked better in the morning.

She blinked. “Are you… bringing me breakfast in bed?”

“You’re still recovering,” he said, setting the tray on her lap like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You need to eat.”

“Is this part of the new image? Grayson Ashford: caring husband, potential cookbook co-author?”

He arched a brow. “Don’t get used to it.”

She smirked, plucked a strawberry off the plate, and bit into it. “Too late.”

He sat at the foot of the bed, close but not quite touching her. His presence was warm and magnetic, drawing her in despite his composed exterior.

She watched him for a moment, searching for any crack in his mask. “About last night—”

“You were sick. It’s done.”

The words were clipped, final.

But his fingers curled around the edge of the bedspread. Tight.

Mailah set the strawberry down. “Right. So we’re pretending that didn’t happen?”

His gaze met hers, level and unreadable. “Did you want it to mean something?”

She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Because yes. And also no. And also what kind of question was that?

He stood abruptly. “I have meetings this morning. You should rest.”

He was halfway to the door when she said, “You said we’d finish this later.”

He stopped. But didn’t turn.

“Later is later,” he said. Then: “Don’t fall asleep in the sunroom again.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

She stared after him, toast untouched.

Outside her window, a light breeze stirred the leaves. But inside her chest, a storm was brewing.

**

Grayson stood in the hallway, hands in his pockets, back pressed to the wall beside her door.

He closed his eyes.

Last night had been reckless. Stupid. And entirely too revealing.

He’d let himself get close. Too close.

He still didn’t know who she really was—not entirely. But he wasn’t blind.

She wasn’t Lailah.

And yet…

He exhaled slowly, pushing off the wall and walking toward his study.

His phone buzzed with another update from Evelyn—something about managing press expectations and a new dinner invitation from an A-list designer.

He didn’t read it.

Instead, he opened the message from his head of security.

 Background check continues.

He stared at it for a long moment, thumb hovering over the delete icon.

Then, quietly, he typed back:

Stop further digging. For now.

He pocketed the phone and stepped into the shadows of the study, the weight of his choices pressing down like never before.

Whatever game they were playing, it was no longer one-sided.

Mailah rallied by mid-morning, determined not to spend the entire day in bed. Fever-free but still sore, she made her way to the breakfast nook in her robe and slippers, hoping to avoid any staff or worse—Grayson.

But as soon as she turned the corner, she nearly collided with Evelyn.

“You’re up! Thank God,” Evelyn said, pushing her sunglasses up on her head. “You missed the overnight headline cycle. And the late-night tweets. And the ‘Grayson Ashford lovingly feeds wife toast’ photo carousel.”

“Oh no,” Mailah groaned.

“Oh yes. You’re trending, darling.”

“Because of toast?”

“Because of the way he looked at you like you were the last slice on earth.”

Mailah tried not to think about that. Or the way he touched her wrist last night. Or the way he didn’t kiss her.

Evelyn flipped open a portfolio. “We’ve been flooded with interview requests. There’s a charity gala in two nights, and we’re confirming a photoshoot with Harper’s Bazaar. But I’m actually here to talk about something else.”

Mailah narrowed her eyes. “What else?”

“Grayson called me last night. Said to halt the guestings.”

Mailah blinked. “Wait. What?”

“Exactly. So, no more talk shows. No more morning segments. We’re scaling back. He’s switching to the slow-burn strategy. Keep you exclusive, elusive. Let the world beg for more.”

Mailah’s pulse kicked up. “That doesn’t sound like him.”

“Well, he’s full of surprises lately. And—” Evelyn leaned in, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “He told me to check on you personally. Said to make sure you’re not overwhelmed.”

Mailah swallowed. “Did he?”

“Mmhm.” Evelyn straightened, smiling like a cat. “And just so you know, the almost-kiss? It’s become a GIF. You two are the slow-burn power couple the internet didn’t know it needed.”

Before Mailah could respond, a text buzzed on Evelyn’s phone. She glanced at it and arched a brow.

“Speak of the devil. He wants to see you in the atrium. Ten minutes. And wear the white blouse.”

“The infamous white blouse again?”

Evelyn winked. “It does things to him. Don’t ask how I know.”

Mailah groaned, but her cheeks flushed as she turned back toward the stairs.

**

When she entered the atrium, sunlight filtered through the tall windows, casting warm patterns on the marble floor. Grayson was standing by the piano, one hand resting lightly on the edge, a crystal glass of water in the other.

He turned when he saw her—and for a second, just a second, something unreadable passed over his face. Not quite awe. Not quite fear. But definitely not indifference.

“You’re looking better,” he said, voice low.

“So they tell me.”

His eyes swept over her, pausing just a beat too long at her waist before flicking away. “You rest well?”

“I would’ve slept better if you hadn’t vanished before sunrise.”

He didn’t smile. But something in his expression softened.

“I had calls to take.”

“Ah yes. Building empires.”

He set the glass down. “And monitoring wives with a tendency to faint in sunrooms.”

She moved closer, drawn in by the tension stretching between them like piano wire.

“I didn’t faint. I… napped. Dramatically.”

He exhaled through his nose—almost a laugh. Almost.

“Evelyn says you canceled the upcoming interviews.”

“I did.”

“Why?”

He stepped closer. “Because you were burning up with fever. Because I don’t want you pushed past your limits. Because—”

He stopped.

She stared up at him. “Because what?”

His gaze dropped to her mouth.

“Because it’s getting harder to remember what’s real.”

Her breath caught.

They were standing too close. Far too close.

When his hand brushed her hip—barely a touch—her whole body tensed.

“Grayson,” she whispered.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured, his voice rough.

She didn’t.

Instead, she tilted her head, heart pounding.

He leaned in, lips just a whisper from hers—

And then someone cleared their throat.

Mailah jumped.

Grayson’s jaw tightened.

Luke stood awkwardly in the hallway. “Uh. Sorry. Evelyn said to get you two ready for the Harper’s team. They’re pulling into the drive.”

Grayson didn’t move. His gaze lingered on her a moment longer before he stepped back.

“We’ll be down shortly,” he said, voice flat again.

Luke nodded and disappeared.

Mailah looked at Grayson.

But his face had already shifted back into unreadable stillness.

Still, she could feel his touch—light, electric—lingering on her skin.

She was beginning to grow irritated by how something always cut in right before they kissed. But deep down, she knew she should be grateful. Those interruptions reminded her of the one thing she kept trying to forget: reality.

She started to walk away.

“Wait,” Grayson called out.

She paused and looked back.

And before she could speak, his lips were already on hers.

She froze.

His mouth was warm and commanding, his hand finding the curve of her neck as if it had always belonged there. There was no hesitation in the kiss—just heat and pressure and a kind of desperation she hadn’t expected from him.

Her breath hitched, and she clutched at the front of his sweater, as if anchoring herself to something solid in the middle of a storm. He angled his head slightly, deepening the kiss, and her knees buckled just a little.

This wasn’t careful. This wasn’t calculated. It wasn’t some PR stunt or a scene for the cameras.

It was Grayson. Real. Raw. Hungry.

And he was kissing her like he’d been holding himself back for weeks and couldn’t anymore.

Her fingers slid up into his hair—soft, thick, infuriatingly perfect—and he made a sound low in his throat that sent heat pulsing through her like wildfire.

She pulled away first, only because she needed air. And because she was starting to forget where she ended and he began.

They stood there, breaths tangled, faces inches apart.

His eyes—those storm-blue eyes—were no longer unreadable. They burned. And they were locked on her like she was the only thing in the room worth looking at.

Mailah opened her mouth, trying to form a thought. A question. Anything.

But Grayson beat her to it.

“That wasn’t part of the act,” he said, his voice rough, low.

Her heart skittered wildly in her chest. “I know.”

A beat passed. Two.

Then he stepped back—slowly, deliberately—as though reining himself in cost him something.

“We should go,” he said, but there was something different in his voice now. A tension. A promise.

Mailah was too stunned to move for a moment. Her lips still tingled. Her body still hummed.

“You can’t just kiss me like that and then go back to talking about camera angles,” she whispered.

“I can,” he said smoothly, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve. “And I will. Because Harper’s Bazaar is downstairs, and if I don’t get myself under control, I’m going to kiss you again.”

Her cheeks burned.

“Is that… a warning?”

His eyes cut to her. “It’s a guarantee.”

She almost laughed, except her lungs weren’t working properly.

He held the door open for her.

Mailah walked past him, but not before pausing—just long enough to whisper, “Then maybe I’ll stop pretending I don’t want you to.”

His fingers twitched at his side. But he didn’t say anything.

Didn’t have to.

Because as they walked down the stairs together, just barely not touching, she could feel it building again between them—tight and electric and inevitable.

Was she supposed to be afraid or excited about what might happen when it finally snapped?

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep